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your scream as you fell. At first I managed to outpace them, but there was no time to disguise my trail.”
    They were moving downhill now and Eric struggled to keep his feet on the muddy ground. He grasped at seedlings and low hanging branches as he ran, struggling to control his descent on the slippery slope. Ahead Alastair slid between the trees with ease.
    Suddenly the old man slammed to a halt and shouted a warning. He spun, cloak whirling around him. His arm slammed into Eric's chest and knocked him flat on his back. Air exploded from his mouth at the impact. Eric fought for air, unable to draw breath. But his keen eyes did not miss the black shaft that flashed through the space he had just occupied. A sharp cracked followed as the bolt smashed into a nearby tree.
    Now the forest filled with the shouts of men. Still gasping in pain, Eric watched from the ground as three armoured guards appeared between the trees. Twigs and stones littered the ground beneath him. They stabbed through his clothing and scratched at his skin. Two inches to his left lay a fallen branch. Wincing, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around it. The rough bark stung the cuts on his palm but its weight felt reassuring in his hands.
    Alastair stepped across him. Reaching down he drew his sword. Its cold metal shone in the streaks of sun which speared through the canopy above. Silver streaks of hair hung across his face, masking his expression. Eric could sense his anger; he saw it in the hunch of the old man’s shoulders as he marched towards the guards.
    Pulling himself to his feet, Eric took stock of the men who faced them. The foremost was a small man, clean-shaven with short black hair. He was edging backwards with one eye on Alastair as he frantically wound his crossbow. The other two stepped past him, their eyes locked on Alastair. Both were larger than the first with bulging arms and necks as thick as tree trunks. One held a long sword in an easy grip. The other raised his own crossbow and took aim. Each wore the blackened burns of the storm.
    The crossbow twanged. This time Alastair had no time to react. The metal bolt flashed through the space between them and buried itself in his left shoulder. Alastair stumbled back, face twisted with pain. Then with a roar he straightened, arm swinging out at his attacker.
    Eric watched with shock as some invisible force caught the archer and flung him through the air. There came a sickening crunch as the man plunged headfirst into a tree. Alastair had not moved a step, had not come within ten feet of him.
    Magic! The word spun through Eric’s head.
    The swordsman charged. He moved with shocking speed for such a giant, his footsteps making muffled thuds on the leaf litter. Before Alastair could raise his arm again the man had closed the distance between them. With a scream of defiance, he swung his sword at the old man’s head.
    The clash of steel on steel rung through the trees. Alastair pulled back his sword and stepped sideways as the man charged past. He spun to stab at his foe’s exposed back but the soldier had already righted himself. Sparks flew as their swords clashed again.
    An overhanded blow forced Alastair back a step. The old man’s face clenched with pain, his movements disjointed. Yet still he managed to fend off his foe’s unrelenting attack. Eric clutched his club at his side, unable to see an opening in the deadly dance of steel.
    Colour was slowly draining from Alastair’s face, turning his skin a paled grey. The bolt remained imbedded in his shoulder. Blood stained his cloak.
    The guard pressed his attack, eyes narrowed with determination. His strength seemed to grow with every swing of his sword. His blade struck like a snake, tip darting out, only to be narrowly blocked. Each attack drew closer to the killing blow.
    Beyond them, Eric saw the first bowman raise his reloaded weapon and then lower it again. Alastair was at least succeeding at keeping the swordsman between